


wash it down

by chirriko



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Romance, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, in their own way, just tea, no actual alcohol consumption tho, sometime then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chirriko/pseuds/chirriko
Summary: And so it is a habit they built. They sit at the kitchen island, drink the disgusting herbal teas that neither of them likes because drinking coffee would be counterproductive to the lie they’re telling themselves, the lie that they want to sleep.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66





	wash it down

It’s sort of a habit of theirs now, it has been for quite some time. Tony doesn’t really know how much time is quite some time exactly, but it’s gotta be at least a week, or maybe a month, or maybe a hundred years. He’s not sure. He just knows that it’s sort of a habit of theirs now. 

First time it happened, whenever that was, Tony had wandered off into the kitchen after a nightmare at what was probably a time only suitable for summoning the devil and howling at the moon. The screams that woke him up had been fresh on his tongue and he needed something, anything really, to wash them down. He needed something hot and bitter, more bitter than the taste of a nightmare, and hotter than the smoldering fire in his chest, than the smoke traveling up his trachea and choking him, _choking him_ _―_

He needed _something_ that would turn his brain to mush, make him dizzy, make him feel as if his organs were Tibetan singing bowls, humming along, comforting him, as they rotted away from too much hot, too much bitter, too many washed down dreams. 

What he found in the kitchen, instead, was a certain Steve Rogers, his head rested in the palm of his hand, white light from the stovetop outlining his silhouette, face hidden in the shadows of an hour only suitable for summoning the devil and howling at the moon. 

“Can’t sleep?” Tony said because saying things is what people do, even when it felt inorganic under the cloak of the night that refused to have him, that said no time and time again, that had banished him from her quarters, unrelenting and unforgiving of whatever awful deed Tony must have committed. 

And Steve hummed back because humming back is what people do. 

It felt as if the hum penetrated Tony’s skin, vibrated through his eardrums, as if the Tibetan bowls were singing in his belly, soothing. _Huh._

He looked at the cabinet above the stove, the one with all the rotten bitter and hot poison stored away behind dark wood, looked back at Steve. Steve, with his frown hidden in the shadows, the sky blue of his eyes veiled by his lids, his hand clasping at his own hair, almost as if he was afraid that if he let go of it, his head would float away to the skies like a helium-filled balloon. 

Perhaps, Tony thought, night had exiled Steve too. Perhaps, Steve had wronged her too. Perhaps, Steve could taste his own screams on his tongue. 

Tony flipped the switch on the electrical tea kettle and reached for the cabinet above the sink. 

“What are you making?” Steve asked. 

Tony looked over his shoulder and smiled a little, as much as his lips allowed him to.

He didn’t answer, just turned back around and dropped the chamomile tea bag into the mug, waited for the kettle to switch off. 

“To wash it down.” He said, placing the mug in front of Steve and sitting down across from him with his own held tightly in both hands, burning the tips of his fingers. 

Next time it happened, Tony was going to the kitchen to grab a fourth (fifth?) cup of coffee. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Steve again, with his back to the doorway that Tony was standing in, sitting in the same stool he was in last time, maybe a week ago, maybe a month ago, maybe a hundred years ago. 

Tony didn’t say anything, just walked over slowly, touched between Steve’s shoulder blades gently, felt the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt, lingered for a few seconds too long. The Tibetan singing bowls in his belly let out a familiar hum. 

“Hey.” He whispered as if that was something that was allowed. As if it was allowed for him to put his hand between Steve’s shoulder blades gently, to linger there, as if it was allowed for him to grab a mug with a monkey drawing on it, drop a peppermint tea bag into it from the cabinet above the sink and place it in front of Steve, while he waited for the water in the tea kettle to boil. 

“Hi.” Steve whispered back, the skies in his irises unveiling, and Tony thought that it must be allowed then, sometimes. The times when they were sitting at the kitchen island with the stovetop light on and with Bruce’s herbal tea burning their fingertips, orphaned by the night, it was allowed then. 

Third time it happened, Tony had been hoping to see Steve. This time, he wasn’t looking for the cabinet above the stove, he wasn’t looking for umpteen amounts of caffeine, he wasn’t looking for anything, really, but he walked into the kitchen anyway. Softly touched Steve’s arm anyway, flipped the tea kettle switch on anyway, dropped two bags of raspberry tea into mugs with animal drawings on them anyway. 

“You know, I don’t like herbal tea.” Steve said, holding on tightly to the mug in his hand. 

“I don’t either.” Tony replied and took a sip from his own.

They weren’t whispering now, but talking didn’t feel inorganic anymore, so Tony thought that must be allowed too, then. 

Fourth time ― or maybe it was fifth, or sixth, or 100th ― Tony noticed that when he flipped on its switch, the electrical tea kettle lit up with a cold blue light. He passed Steve his monkey mug with cinnamon orange tea and thought that the cold blue of the tea kettle was like the cold blue of Steve’s eyes.

Steve looked up at him through his eyelashes, gave him a small smile, and the smoldering fire in Tony’s chest cooled down a bit.

“What are they about?” Steve asked one time. 

He didn’t sit in his usual spot anymore. At some point, he switched over to sitting in the stool next to Tony’s, the monkey and giraffe from their mugs staring at each other, their burned fingertips a breath away from touching. 

“Falling, space, everyone dying, suffocating. You know, the usual,” He took a sip of his lavender tea, felt the burn numb the disgusting taste of it, “Car crashes, Howard screaming.” 

Steve’s pinky intertwined with Tony’s, almost as if they were making a silent pinky promise. Maybe they were. 

“You?” He asked, wondering if the question was added to the list of things that were allowed now. 

“Winter, mostly, the cold. Bucky dying, Bucky apparently not dying, Bucky looking at me like he doesn’t know who I am. Being alone,” Steve looked down at their intertwined pinkies. _Where is the line_ , Tony thought, _how far until it’s not allowed anymore?_ “You falling.” He added. 

The Tibetan singing bowls roared. 

And so it is a habit they built. They sit at the kitchen island, drink the disgusting herbal teas that neither of them likes because drinking coffee would be counterproductive to the lie they’re telling themselves, the lie that they want to sleep. Sleep is scary, it’s dangerous, sleep is a soldier that night sent to punish Tony for whatever awful deed he committed, she armored it with gobs of nightmares so vicious, Tony lost the courage to face it again. 

“Hey,” Steve says, squeezing Tony’s hand in his own, running his other through the loose curls falling over Tony’s forehead, “Let’s go to bed.” 

And Tony looks at him and thinks that maybe if the sunlight in Steve’s heart is bright enough to illuminate his eyes into the color of a clear afternoon sky, it must be bright enough to protect Tony from any armored soldier night sends his way. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” Tony smiles and puts down his cup of rosehip tea. 

**Author's Note:**

> i love herbal tea btw, they're weird for not liking it
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this!! my first time writing stony, super excited about it! comments and kudos make my day, let me know what you thought!!
> 
> you can reblog this fic on [tumbr](https://chirriko.tumblr.com/post/621034927707799552/wash-it-down-read-on-ao3-its-sort-of-a-habit-of)!


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